SOME few years ago, in one of the villages SOME the North of England, a praying band of God’s children assembled together every night for eight months to entreat a blessing on their village and its neighborhood. Their cry was, that precious souls, who were living around them, “without God and without hope,” might be brought to the Saviour. Just at that time I had commenced speaking “a word for Jesus,” and, why I know not, felt a certain inclination to go and preach the gospel at this very village. This desire was the more strange, as the place and people were unknown to me, and the village was over sixty miles from my home.
On telling my wife this wish, she replied, “Well, it is quite clear you cannot go, for all the money I have in the house is two shillings and sixpence, and that has to last us some days.” This seemed to finish the matter, still I could not get over the feeling that I was to go to the village.
The next day I went to a friend, to whom I spoke on the subject, and he replied, “How strange for I have received a letter this morning from the old Christian, in whose house a prayer meeting has been held for eight months, and he says that he has heard of a young man who has begun to preach, and that, whilst in prayer, God said to him, ‘Send, and ask him to come.’” This quite convinced me that I should go the following Saturday night.
I soon procured the amount of money required for a return ticket, and started for the railway station, some five miles distant from which lay the village. Not a soul was there to be seen on my way over the moors, but, with the help of a full moon, I could just decipher the pencil sketch that I had of the paths to be taken, and in due course arrived at L—.
I was not long in identifying the house to which I had been directed, the peculiarity of its garden being such that no one could fail to recognize it! Yes, there it was, a humble cottage with a neat garden in front, having a path up the middle. Instead of growing vegetables like his neighbors, the dear old Christian, to whom it belonged, preferred to yield his garden as a silent testimony to God. In the clear moonlight I could distinctly read, traced in large letters in various brightly-colored plants, the words, “God is Light,” “God is Love.” As I stood admiring the simple designs, and thanking God that I knew Him as both Light and Love, I heard the sound of prayer within, and, knocking at the door, a voice exclaimed, “Praise the Lord! I believe that is he!” and sure enough it was.
I was greeted in true primitive style by this honored old saint. When I mentioned the delight I experienced in reading the texts in his garden, he replied, “Ah, yes! nearly all who pass through the village stop and read my little sermon, and when I see them doing so I send up a prayer to God to bless it to their souls.”
The prayer-meeting being ended, the dear old man’s cup completely ran over when I told him I preferred open-air preaching to supper, so we sallied forth, and God gave us a real good time, the people coming out to listen, and some to give glory to God. For some weeks I went backwards and forwards to that village, and God blessed mightily, to the pulling down of the strongholds of the evil one, and the casting down of the imaginations of men’s hearts, and many were saved.
One evening, after the greater number had gone, I felt a heavy hand laid on my shoulder, and with sighs and weeping, a voice said, “Ah! John, I canna keep from greeting.” It was W., a man whom I had always believed to be a Christian; but, no, and now he opened his heart to me, and told me of his doubts and fears. We looked together into the blessed word of God, and prayed again and again, till at last my poor friend was able to rejoice in the knowledge of a present and eternal salvation. It was by this time morning, and nearly time for me to go off to the station to return home, and with great joy in my heart I retraced my steps.
Shortly afterward I left England for nearly two years. On my return, I found my way again to this village, and the first question I asked a Christian friend was, “How is dear W. getting on?” He replied, “What! John, have you not heard that God took him home, to be with Jesus, just a fortnight ago?” No, indeed, I had not. Little did I imagine, as I bade goodbye to the hale and big north countryman, and he remarked weeping, “John, you are not strong enough to go to that dangerous climate”—for I was ordered to Egypt—little did I imagine that he, the strong one, should be taken, and I, the weak one, should be left, yet such was the inscrutable will of God.
That evening, as I entered the room where dear W. had been saved on that eventful night, a feeling of deep sorrow and yet of joy filled my heart. After commending the meeting to the Lord, I said, “Let us sing our dear W.’s favorite hymn—
“I’m waiting for Thee, Lord,
Thy beauty to see, Lord,
I am waiting for Thee,
For Thy coming again.”
As that hymn ascended from the lips of his fond parents and weeping friends, the Spirit of God seemed to remind us all of the resurrection morn, when we should be reunited.
I was anxious at the close of the meeting to hear some details of W.’s last days; his dear wife told me that after he found peace through Christ he was never so happy as when serving God. One day he took a bad cold, which he neglected until he became so seriously ill with bronchitis, that a doctor had to be called in, who expressed fears as to his recovery. When W. heard this, he joyfully committed himself into the loving hands of his God and Father, who doeth all things well. A short time before he died, he requested that his favorite hymn should be sung, and, round the dying bed, the assembled children of God sang together, “I am waiting for Thee, Lord.” Dear W. then passed away, happy in a Saviour’s love.
J. H.